Insomnia in N.Y.C.

for Christina

I am happy
to have her home
again, her eyes are filled
with tired excitement
I do not ask her, how was her night
or what stranger she has seen
she'll discuss this, after the harsh
outcries of our next doot neighbor
as he watches in anguish, the TV shooting
of his favorite hero, Marshall Dillon.

And so we sit, listening
to the white noise of the ceiling fan
spinning endlessly into oblivion
the junkie mother pacing the dimly
lit hallway, in search for her imaginary
daughter and Peter, the crazy ex-con
turned artist, trying to convince the
night clerk into allowing him to paint
murals in all of the ugly lilac colored
rooms, in exchange, he shall have his
room for free.

slowly she peels herself out of her blue
sequin dress, while lying on the bed, as
if a mermaid washed ashore into the hands
of the peasant fisherman; I've prepared for
her, a tub of warm water in which she
washed away the smoke and finger prints
of faceless johns...she reenters the tiny
room, I tell her how our neighbor screamed
so loud that he stopped would be thieves
in their tracks after contemplating a
robbery; she gives a reassuring smile

and gently pulls the covers over her
beautiful body, while somewhere in the
night, the sax player fills her dreams
with noise, lots of white noise.